- •Chapter one—Monday midnight
- •Chapter two—Monday 1 a.M.—2 a.M.
- •I made to push past him, but he barred my way.
- •I moved up the aisle, followed by Jackstraw. The young man who had been lying on the floor pulled himself on to a seat, and he grinned at me as I passed.
- •Chapter three—Monday 2 a.M.—3 a.M.
- •I was tired, worried and felt like telling him what he could do with his parishioners, but it wasn't his fault.
- •I gave some time to allow this cheering item of information to sink in, then continued.
- •I answered all of their questions as best I could but these answers were all to the same effect, that I didn't really know anything more about it than they did.
- •I looked at her, looked at the washed-out face, the faint blue circles forming under her eyes, and almost felt touched with pity. Almost. She was exhausted, and shivering with cold.
- •In the darkness I could almost feel him staring at me. After a long time he said softly, "You wouldn't say this unless you were sure of it."
- •Chapter four—Monday 6 a.M.—6 p.M.
- •I nodded in Joss's direction. "There's the man to ask."
- •It was magnificent, I had to admit. I could have hit her, but it was magnificent.
- •Chapter five—Monday 6 p.M.—7 p.M.
- •I took her arm without a word and led her through to the radio cabin. I trained the torch beam on to the top of the radio cabinet.
- •I shrugged. "Maybe he had a high resistance to Mickey Finns.
- •Chapter six—Monday 7 p.M.—Tuesday 7 a.M.
- •I motioned him out of the way and had a look. Two seconds later I had thrust my automatic into Joss's hand and was on my way up top.
- •I shook my head and said nothing. The reason for this last theft I couldn't even begin to imagine.
- •It was a touching story, pathetic and deeply moving, and I didn't believe a word of it.
- •Chapter seven—Tuesday 7 a.M.—Tuesday Midnight
- •Chapter eight—Wednesday 4 a.M.—8 p.M.
- •I was answered by mute headshakes from everybody.
- •I fumbled and nearly dropped the mike in my excitement.
- •I acknowledged, then asked without preamble: "What news from Uplavnik?"
- •Chapter nine—Wednesday 8 p.M.—Thursday 4 p.M.
- •I moved back to where the others were grouped round the rear of the tractor cabin and took up a position where I could watch them all—but especially Zagero and Levin.
- •I stared at him for a long long moment, then turned heavily for the door.
- •Chapter ten—Thursday 4 p.M.—Friday 6 p.M.
- •I threw the receiving switch.
- •I brought it and when I returned Corazzini was sitting on the front of the tractor sled with a case before him. But it wasn't the leather-covered portable radio: it was Smallwood's robe case.
- •I never doubted him. I knew he'd do it in an instant. I gave him our position, he asked for another map, asked Jackstraw to mark our position on the second, and compared the two.
- •I stared at him in the darkness.
- •Chapter eleven—Friday 6 p.M.—Saturday 12.15 p.M.
- •I knew he was right. Neither Smallwood nor Corazzini had shown any mechanical ability at all, and I was convinced that it had been no act.
- •I was already on my way, running, slipping, stumbling, Jackstraw by my side, Balto leading the way. Zagero was standing up, waiting—and the young German girl by his side.
- •It was all I could have wished for, indeed it was more than I'd ever hoped for, and Zagero's heavy thump on my back showed how joyfully he shared my feelings.
- •Chapter twelve—Saturday 12.15 p.M.—12.30 p.M.
- •I made no response, but twisted my head as I heard footsteps behind me. It was Joss, hatless and gloveless in his excitement.
- •I saw it right away, a small light, but powerful, winking irregularly. I watched it for a few moments then heard Joss's voice.
- •I knew he meant it absolutely.
Chapter twelve—Saturday 12.15 p.M.—12.30 p.M.
The Citroen was travelling in a most erratic fashion—one moment slowing down almost to a stop, the next jerking forward and covering perhaps twenty to thirty yards at a rush. Although we couldn't see the glacier surface at that distance, it was obvious that the driver was picking his way round ice-mounds and threading along between fissures at the best speed he could manage. But his average speed was very low: it would probably take him almost five minutes to reach that point opposite us where the glacier fell away sharply to the left towards the outer angle of the dog-leg half-way down towards the fjord.
All these things I noted mechanically, without in any way consciously thinking of them. All I could think of was that Smallwood and Corazzmi had outwitted us right up to the last -almost certainly, I could understand now, they had seen and been warned by the rockets Hillcrest had fired to give the Scimitar our position, and decided to give that side of the glacier the widest possible berth.
But the reasons no longer mattered a damn. All that mattered was the accomplished fact, and the fact was that Corazzini and Smallwood could no longer be stopped, not in the way we had intended. Even yet, of course, they could be stopped—but I had no illusions but that that would be at the cost of the lives of the two hostages in the tractor.
Frantically I tried to work out what to do for the best. There was no chance in the world that we might approach them openly over the glacier—we would be spotted before we had covered ten yards, and a pistol at the heads of Margaret and Levin would halt us before we got half-way. If we did nothing, let them get away, I knew the hostages' chances of survival were still pretty slim—that trawler would almost certainly have a name or number or both and I couldn't see Smallwood letting them make an identification of the trawler and then come back to report to us—and to all the waiting ships and planes in the Davis Strait—Baffin Sea area. Why should he take the slightest risk when it would be so easy to shoot them, so much easier still to throw them down a crevasse or shove them over the edge of the glacier into the freezing waters of the fjord a hundred and fifty feet below.. . . Already the Citroen was no more than three minutes away from the nearest point of approach they would make to us.
"Looks like they're going to get away with it," Hillcrest whispered. It seemed as if he feared he might be overheard, though Smallwood and Corazzini couldn't have heard him had he shouted at the top of his voice.
"Well, that was what you wanted, wasn't it?" I asked bitterly.
"What I wanted! My God, man, that missile mechanism—"
"I don't give a single solitary damn about the missile mechanism." I ground the words out between clenched teeth. "Six months from now other scientists will have invented something twice as good and ten times as secret. They're welcome to it, and with pleasure."
Hillcrest was shocked, but said nothing. But someone was in agreement with me.
"Hear, hear!" Zagero had just come up, his hands swathed to the size of boxing gloves in white bandages. The words were light enough, but his face was grim and his eyes bleak as he stared out across the glacier. "My sentiments exactly, Doc. To hell with their murderous little toys. My old man's in that buggy out there. And your girl."
"His girl?" Hillcrest turned, looked sharply at me under creased brows for a long moment, then murmured: "Sorry, boy, I didn't understand."